Forgotten Gods
by Marc Spector
Summary: Marine, CIA operative, philanthropist, prize fighter, cripple, hero, Avenger. After a failed assassination attempt, Moon Knight, the man who had been all of those things at one time or another, is drawn into the middle of a world shattering conspiracy.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Moon Knight, or any of the other Marvel Comics characters depicted herein. Just borrowing.

**Chapter One: Vengeance**

**Thousands **of miles from her comfort zone, in a tiny tea house in Japan, Gretchen von Hirsch grew anxious. Then, again, she was always a little anxious during an operation. Though she wouldn't admit it to anyone, she had a slight fear of being ambushed, which was probably understandable considering her line of work. Heading towards the back of the establishment, towards the designated meeting spot, she carried a black briefcase in her right hand. As her keen blue eyes scanned the patronage of the little tea house, her guy came into view. He was a young, lithe, and handsome Japanese man dressed in an expensive looking black suit. His hair was long and black, and tied in a ponytail. It looked like silk. Underneath, he wore a crisp electric blue shirt and he sipped his tea in silence, while reading a newspaper.

Continuing to head in his direction, she noticed the briefcase at his feet. It was identical to hers. _Good_, she thought. _Everything is going according to plan._ She sat down at a table, diagonally from him, and placed her briefcase next to his. A strange looking blonde waitress rushed over to serve her. The blonde hair looked strange framing the Japanese woman's face, but Gretchen couldn't blame her for wanting to change her looks to that of a German woman. She would probably do the same, had she not been so blessed. The waitress asked her what she would like, and she ordered what she had been told to order, using perfect Japanese. As she ordered, the man across from her turned the page, and took a sip. Her signal had been received. She shuddered to think of what might have happened had she not ordered the right thing. Though the man didn't look menacing, who new what lurked around the corner in this strange country.

Moments passed, and as she sat there in silence, alone with her thoughts, she couldn't help but think back on her boss' behavior. She had never seen the old man so flustered…so frantic. And all because of a dream. Though she believed in him, and his cause, she had never considered the man a prophet. A great, and wise, sometimes charismatic leader, yes. But, prophet…she didn't think so. Still, she was here, doing what she was told.

Her tea was quite good. She figured it would be, and upon finishing, she ordered another cup. She didn't really drink a lot of tea in Germany, but…_when in Rome_, she thought to herself. As the waitress turned to leave, the man dropped some money onto the table. Then, without acknowledging her presence at all, he picked up her briefcase and departed. As she watched him leave, she sighed in relief, thankful that she hadn't had to use the small, nine-millimeter pistol strapped to the inside of her thigh. After she had her second cup of tea, she got back on her private jet and flew back to Egypt.

** #**

**Endo Kuri** climbed into the backseat of a stretch limousine, clutching the briefcase firmly. He was pleased with the success of the drop. The woman they sent, had been quite pleasing to the eye. Though the elders probably wouldn't have approved of him lusting after any woman, let alone a foreigner. He sighed, remembering his past, and the relative freedom of it. _Long gone now_, he thought, his eyes wandering towards the briefcase. After a moment, his curiosity got the best of him. The elders wouldn't approve of that. However, not really caring at the moment, he pressed a button on a side panel, raising the tinted, privacy divider. He opened the briefcase and was stunned. It was filled with, what had to be a million dollars (U.S.) and a manila folder. His eyes darted to the privacy divider, making sure the driver could not see him. Then, he opened the folder, and was stunned again. It was a grainy black and white photo of what was hopefully a man, in a hooded white costume. At the center of this man's chest was an emblem in the shape of a crescent moon. Kuri shook his head, sympathetically. He felt sorry for whoever this 'moon man' was. Then, he smiled at the thought. He…actually felt sorry for someone. He shook his head, again, and smiled. The elders probably wouldn't approve of that either.

_ #_

_Blood_…

The voice called out to him from the darkness. He tried to ignore it as he peered through the open door of the attack helicopter. He gazed down as the city whizzed by underneath, and marveled at how beautiful she was when you couldn't really see what was going on in her dark, crime infested alley's. He checked the pouches on his utility belt, making sure that the magazines were fully loaded with his trademark, crescent moon shaped shurikens. As his white cloak billowed in the wind, his hand went to the foot long steel truncheon he kept in a spring loaded compartment on his left boot. It was perhaps his most trusted weapon, and it was multi-faceted, in that it could separate into a set of nunchuks, which he was very proficient at using.

_Blood_…

_Blood_…

The voice called to him again, and again, and he felt a cold chill work its slippery way down his back. "You'll get it," he replied. "In spades."

"Pardon me?" he heard a voice ask from inside the helicopter. He recognized it as belonging to Frenchie, his personal pilot, and closest friend.

The man stirred back to life, as if from a dream. "What? Nothing. Talking to myself."

"We're here," Frenchie stated.

The man looked down and found that they were hovering some one hundred feet above a long three story, brick building in the industrial district. Twenty four hours ago he had received some intel on a terrorist group that had been using the building as a factory to produce chemical weapons. Chemical weapons that they would use on the people of New York City. Something he could not allow.

As he crouched near the door, he pulled his cowl down over his face and took a deep breath. He was no longer Marc Spector, ex-Marine turned mercenary turned millionaire philanthropist. He was Moon Knight, hero, and avatar of the Egyptian god of the moon…and…_Vengeance!! _

The voice screamed at him in his mind and Moon Knight launched himself from the doorway of the helicopter. Gripping his cape at its corners, it allowed him to glide down, safely, to his desired destination. But he didn't want to glide all the way down. With about fifteen feet to go, he released the ends of his cape and crashed through the glass skyline.

A terrorist standing on the catwalk looked up, stunned, as shards of glass fell like rain all around him. The heels of Moon Knight's pearl white boots slammed into him, chest height, knocking him to the ground, driving all the air from his lungs.

Moon Knight turned to his right, spotted another terrorist, and loosed a trio of crescent shaped shurikens with a flick of his wrist. The tiny weapons whistled through the air before lodging themselves into the man's flesh. The man instinctively dropped his AK-47 and howled in pain.

In that instant, with a burst of impossible speed, Moon Knight had closed the twenty yard distance, and was on him. The terrorist swung desperately with his right arm. Moon Knight effortlessly deflected it, pinning it to the railing with his left, and delivered a vicious blow to the man's throat. The impact of the attack carried the man up and over the railing of the catwalk, sending him plummeting to his death, thirty feet below.

Moon Knight didn't hesitate, and vaulted over the railing, sailing the thirty feet to the factory floor with practiced ease. A startled terrorist stared at him with frightened eyes, as he clutched an AK-47. However, before he could squeeze the trigger, Moon Knight was a blur of brutal movement. He clasped his hands together in an 'A' and brought them down on the man's forearms with tremendous force. As the weapon click-clacked on the cold floor, Moon Knight swung his arms back up, this time connecting harshly with the man's chin. Blood spurted and teeth flew as the man's head snapped back. Moon Knight then sent him sprawling into the corner, with a hard kick to the abdomen.

Turning to his left, Moon Knight saw a muzzle flash from thirty yards away, followed immediately by the distinctive chatter of machine gun fire. He flung himself behind a large platform just as a hailstorm of bullets exploded into the wall behind him.

_Dammit_! He couldn't afford to be slowed down, he had to find that nerve toxin. He dropped into a half crouch and moved to his left, around the platform, spotting the terrorist. He was dressed in a black t-shirt and cargo pants, standing thirty yards away, slowly moving towards Moon Knight's last known position.

Moon Knight's hand slipped down to his left boot and brought up the steel truncheon. He targeted the man, then launched his weapon. As always, his aim was true, and the business end of the truncheon connected with the side of the man's head with a vicious _crack_. He fell to the floor, unconscious.

Moon Knight hustled over to retrieve his weapon, when the voice called out to him again. _Pick it up_, it commanded. Moon Knight knew the voice was referring to the AK-47. He shook his head. "I don't need it."

There was a sudden tingling at the base of his skull, then a shout. _PICK IT UP!!_ Moon Knight ignored the voice and continued east towards the center of the building.

Suddenly, two more terrorists came into view. When they saw him coming, they paused in their tracks and opened fire. Running head first into a barrage of steel jacketed rounds, his hands went to a pouch on his belt. As they came back up, each hand clutched a trio of crescent moon shaped shurikens. Bullets whizzed by his head as he hurled the projectiles. The terrorist on the left was struck in the neck and in both hands. The terrorist on the right was struck three times in the throat.

He ran passed their dead bodies without so much as a second glance. Up ahead was another group of men. The largest group yet. Six men lined up in front of one man, probably the leader. There were two Kalashnikov toting bodyguards standing on either side of the leader, as he placed metal canisters into a backpack that each man held.

Moon Knight's eyes locked on those canisters, and he poured on a burst of speed. As the leader continued placing the canisters in the backpacks, the men who had theirs filled up, closed them, and took off in a hurry towards the exit. First one, then another, and another. He had to stop them. There were three left, and the leader prepared to deposit another canister. Without giving any visible signal, his two bodyguards stepped to the forefront and opened fire. Moon Knight didn't hesitate, launching himself head long into the gunman on the right. As they tumbled on the cold, hard floor of the factory, Moon Knight battered the man into unconsciousness with two savage, blows to the head.

Then, he just barely managed to dive out of the way as a burst of machine gun fire ricocheted off the floor in front of him. Rolling to his feet, he found pleasure in the surprised look of the gunman as Moon Knight held the unconscious man's assault rifle. He smiled underneath his cowl and fired a quick six round burst. The second bodyguard staggered awkwardly as the rounds tore through his chest, then he fell to the ground, dead.

The last three men holding the backpacks started to run. Moon Knight brought the weapon to his shoulder and fired another burst, then another, and another, until all three men had fallen in bloody, viscous, red pools.

Now empty, he dropped the rifle and turned to his right. Staring at the empty doorway, he cursed under his breath. Three canisters had made it out. Who knew how many lives that would cost. And it would be all on his head.

Using the tiny, encrypted, two way communication piece in his ear, he contacted Frenchie in the helicopter. "Frenchie…"

"Oui, Marc?"

"Tell me you saw three-"

A sudden gunshot interrupted their communication. Marc felt the terrible impact of a steel jacketed nine-millimeter hollow point bullet explode in his back, behind his left shoulder. The pain was intense, but he had been shot before, and he didn't forget his training. As his body turned from the impact, one of the crescent shaped shurikens was already whistling through the air in the direction of the man who fired the shot. The high carbon, steel alloy, silver plated weapon plunged into the gun holding hand of the terrorist. Dropping his weapon, and howling in pain, he furiously charged Moon Knight.

"Marc! Marc!" he heard Frenchie shout through the earpiece, as the terrorist leader came barreling towards him.

"Not now Frenchie." He said, sidestepping the charging terrorist leader. Lashing out with his right leg, he caught the man behind the knee with a harsh kick, dropping him to his knees. Turning to his right, Moon Knight drove his knee into the center of the kneeling terrorist's back. The man arched in pain, then as Moonknight's fist rushed in to meet his face, he deflected the gloved wrist and deliverd two quick blows to Moon Knight's ribcage.

Wincing, Moon Knight stepped back. The terrorist hopped to his feet. Both men faced each other in a half crouch, and the terrorist watched Moon Knight with wary eyes. At six two, more than two hundred twenty pounds, and garbed all in white; suit, cape, cowl, gloves, and boots, Moon Knight set an imposing figure. But, the terrorist looked more confused than afraid.

"Who are you?" he asked, solid brown eyes locked onto the man across from him.

Moon Knight couldn't place the accent, and glared back at him, blood streaming from the back of his shoulder. Eyeing each other with hatred, the two men circled each other, hands up at the ready.

"Where are those men taking the canisters?" the hero asked.

"Do not burden yourself with such thoughts. In a few moments it won't matter. Because you will not be around to care." He smiled as he spoke the words. It sounded as if he had shards of broken glass in his throat.

Suddenly, the terrorist launched a flurry of lightening quick strikes. But, Moon Knight was up to the task, parrying the majority of them, and countering with a few strikes of his own. Then, he lashed out with a vicious kick, his booted foot striking the terrorist just below the knee. The man dropped, and Moon Knight whirled, his elbow targeting the man's head. He caught the elbow, and his fist shot out, striking Moon Knight in the center of his back.

Liquid fire arced through the hero's nervous system like a bolt of lightening. However, before he could dwell on the pain, the palm of the terrorist's hand crashed into the side of his knee, causing him to lose his balance and fall to the floor. Nearly as soon as he landed, the man was on him, raining down blows with bone breaking intensity.

Fighting through the downpour, Moon Knight delivered another massive blow, the inside edge of his straight hand crushing the man's windpipe. The blow was brutal and sudden, and the terrorist stumbled back and away, falling to the ground, clutching his throat and gagging for air. Moon Knight, climbed to his feet, the back of his once pristine uniform, stained a bloody red. He drew the truncheon, and swung it down forcefully…again, and again, and again. As crimson blood spurted and splashed everywhere, ghastly wet cracking sounds, obliterated the relative silence of the warehouse. There was one final _CRACK, _louder than all the others, and the terrorist leader finally went slack.

Blood now stained the front of his suit as well as the back, and Moon Knight raced to the nearest exit. "Frenchie, tell me you…" As he stepped outside he was pleasantly surprised. The parking lot and the adjoining streets looked like a battlefield. Three cars had been torn to shreds by his helicopter's 20mm vulcan cannon. An incredible 6,000 rounds per minute had all three obliterated vehicles belching fire and black smoke. The ground was covered in craters, shattered glass, and fresh blood.

Underneath his cowl, he smiled. Frenchie always was a good shot.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter Two: There Will Be Blood**_

"**A **word of advice, if I may, Marc?" Frenchie offered, as he worked on retrieving the metal from his friends back. The wound was jagged, blood was everywhere, it didn't look promising.

"Go for it."

"Perhaps you should try not getting shot so much."

Marc laughed as he lay prone on a cold kitchen table. He used to have a whole setup with a cave and everything, but now he figured, why hide it? Who really cared? He wouldn't be throwing any parties anytime soon. So there was really no need to be underground. "What's next on the agenda?" he asked, changing the subject. He was anxious to get back out into the field. There were plenty of scumbags that needed bustin' up.

"Let's see," he heard Frenchie say, immediately followed by the sound of him dropping a tiny piece of metal in a bowl nearby. "You've got a surveillance operation, which you should cancel, scheduled for 2230."

He groaned. "I'm not cancelling anything Frenchie. What time is it now?"

"2220."

"Damn it. Patch me up, we're running late."

**#**

**The **surveillance op actually consisted of him crouching on a rooftop, eavesdropping on a poker game. The game was being hosted by one Mishenka Kazakov. Kazakov was a lieutenant in one of New York City's various Russian crime syndicates, and hosted a bi-weekly poker game in one of his safe houses. Only his closest friends were invited. To Moon Knight it seemed like as good a place as any to gather intelligence, which is why he placed a small listening device in the 1200 square foot apartment two nights before.

Frenchie dropped him a half a mile away from the place, then returned to base. There was no sense in him staying, it was going to be a long night.

They had been playing for more than half an hour by the time he arrived and got set up. The first transmission nearly shattered his ear drum.

_"Dimitri is so full of shit!"_

"No, no. I swear to you. This motherfucker goes there every Tuesday and Thursday, and delivers the package. Sometimes even on Saturdays!!"

There was riotous laughter.

"Screw you Dimitri. You talk to much."

Moon Knight wondered what the hell they were talking about. It wasn't the Russian they were speaking. He was fluent. He just needed more time to put the pieces together.

"It's not I who talks too much, but your little bomba."

Laughter all around.

His little bomb?

"Or perhaps I should say, your _big _bomba!"

There was even more laughter.

Big bomb? What the hell were they talking about?

Finally, there must've been someone new to the party, because Moon Knight heard him ask about the _bomba_.

It was Kazakov's husky voice that answered him. "They call her the big bomb, because if she got any bigger…she would explode!"

Everyone laughed again.

They call _her _the big bomb…

It was somebody's girlfriend.

That's what they had been talking about.

It really was going to be a long night.

**#**

**It **was nearly 6,000 miles from Tokyo to Cairo. At 600 miles per hour that came out to a 10 hour flight, which wasn't bad. Seven hours into it, Gretchen received a phone call.

"I'm sorry to have interrupted your dinner," the voice started out.

"It was just a salad," she responded. Though, it wasn't just any salad. It was Crab, Jicama, and Mango salad with lemon-curry vinaigrette…and it was perfect! The world class chef that accompanied the old man's plane wherever it went had used large and tender chunks of fresh Atlantic blue crabmeat, instead of canned crab or the wet and stringy, frozen Alaskan crabmeat. The jicama was ripe, the mango was perfect, and thus the phone call irritated her profoundly. The fact that it wasn't the old man himself, irritated her even more.

"I assume the package has been delivered successfully."

"You assume correctly," she answered, and took a sip from her wine glass, then reclined back in the large, lush, leather seat.

"Then, your trip went well?"

"As well as can be expected."

"And how's the flight?"

She sighed in exasperation. "What's with all the small talk, Adofo?" Adofo was an Egyptian recruited by the old man to, as far as she could tell, talk on the phone for him. Apparently, the old man wasn't into phones.

"I just ask the questions I'm told to ask. Don't bust my balls, alright."

_Don't bust my balls? _"You've been watching too many American movies."

He sighed. "I know. Tell me, do you think these…people will carry out their assignment?"

"Rumor has it, they never fail. Why do you ask?"

"His dreams…they're getting worse."

"How do you know this?" She was certain Adofo didn't have that intimate a relationship with the old man.

"I can see it in his face. He looks older than he did when you left. Whatever these dreams are, they are killing him."

"The old man will be fine, Adofo."

"How can you be so sure?"

"He's been through too much to let a bad dream or two stop him now. He's stronger than that. Once, a long time ago, he was the strongest of us all. If everything goes according to plan, he will be again. Now, if you don't mind, I have a salad I have to get back to."

"Of course."

Happy to be rid of the phone, she handed it back to the stewardess, and went back to the crab, jicama, and mango salad.

**#**

**Moon **Knight checked his watch. 0200 hours. No useful intel as of yet, his shoulder ached, and worse still, it had started to rain. And not a light rain either. It was really coming down, fat and fast. Entire sheets of the stuff, so much so, it began to interfere with his vision.

He drew his cloak around him tightly, and tried to stay focused on the mission. It had been a few hours and there had been no discussion whatsoever of business. He was beginning to think that he had been wasting his time when a familiar voice spoke up.

_Nice night_, it said. And as if on cue, thunder cracked, and a whip of lightening ripped across the sky illuminating the whole world for the briefest of moments.

"Go away."

_Now, now. Is that any way to talk to a god? And your own personal savior at that?_

"You already got what you wanted."

_And now I want to give you something._

"I don't need anything. I'm just watching them. Listening. It's surveillance. I need to concentrate. I don't want to miss anything."

_So_…?

"So…there won't be any blood."

_Hm. That's what you think. _

"What?" Moon Knight stood up and looked around. "What did you say?" But, there was no answer. There was no one there.

Nothing but shadows, and rain.

He looked skyward. It was dark and cloudy. There was no moonlight. He thought back to the days when it gave him strength, the moon. He realized that he had come to depend on it, that extra burst of strength and speed. His eyes narrowed on his fist as he opened and closed it. No. Nothing. Not an ounce of 'extra.' Then, he caught a whiff of something foul. Something he hadn't smelled in a long time. Death magic. It wafted in from the east and the reek of it cut through the crisp smell of rain like a hot knife through butter, growing more potent with every passing moment. The stench of incense and decaying flesh.

Peering into the darkness his mind searched frantically for the source. And seemingly right before his very eyes the shadows that had surrounded him had come to life, morphing into slender, man shaped figures.

Lots of them.

Steel glinted in the moonlight as a gust of wind caught his cape, snapping it back. Another chill worked its way down his spine, as he realized who they were.

The Hand. A clan of demon worshipping undead assassins. The best in the business, and they were legion. It was not his lucky night.

Suddenly, in a rush of metal and black cloth they were on him, a swirling carnival of slashing blades, and powerful kicks. When the first one came, he ducked under a slashing sword cut, and delivered a massive blow to the ninja's rib cage. Then he snatched the sword from his limp hand, delivered another hard blow to another ninja, turned to his left and carved away the arm of a third one. As he continued to fight them off, someone managed to slice his arm. Though the cut wasn't immediately life threatening, it was still deeper than he would've liked.

He kicked out again, took a blow here, took a blow there, carved off a leg, then an arm, then a head. Then he took a hard kick to the chest, sending him skidding across the wet roof on his back. The pain in his shoulder flared to life, but there was no time to dwell on it. The business end of yet another sword came rushing down to meet him. He rolled to his left, and kicked out with his right leg. The creature's knee gave out with a sickening crack. Sparks flew as he rolled to his feet and blocked a quick flurry of attacks from a pair of opponents. Attacking, he amputated an arm, chopped off a hand, then plunged the sword deep into someone else's chest. Spurts of green blood filled the night air. And still they came. Four more crept towards him. His sword flashed, and four heads fell at his feet. He almost slipped in the mixture of blood and rain. And still they came.

They wouldn't give up. He knew that. It wasn't the first time he had come into contact with the clan of demon ninjas. He didn't know how he had made their hit list, but he knew there was only one way off of it. And that was death.

That's when an idea hit him. Spinning on his boot heels, he took off for the edge of the roof, the mobster's conversations still continuing in his earpiece. As he neared the ledge, he leapt for all he was worth, his powerful legs propelling him over the edge and straight for the adjacent building in a full on swan dive.

He exploded through the window in a shower of tinkling glass, hit the ground, and dispersed the impact by immediately going into a shoulder roll. Kazakov and the other gangsters stood, automatic weapons drawn. Before they could open fire on him, the platoon of Hand operatives came crashing through the rest of the windows. The gangsters didn't hesitate, and the air was ripped apart by gunfire. Clouds of green mist seeped into the room from the ninja's bullet riddled bodies. But still they kept coming. One of the men tried to reload his weapon, a sword flashed, blood spirted, and his arm hit the floor, still holding the pistol. More swords flashed, arms and legs lashed out, and bullets split everything in their path. The room was awash in red and green blood from the two groups of combatants.

Moon Knight, still clutching a sword, stayed low to the ground as he dashed for the door. One of the ninjas slashed at his back opening up a bloody wound. Wincing in pain, Moon Knight whirled, blade extended. The creature's head hit the floor with a thud, trailed by a viscous spray of emerald green. Moon Knight snatched open the door and stumbled out into the hallway, smearing the walls with his own blood.

_Glorious! Glorious! _Khonshu howled with pleasure.

He descended the stairs as fast as his battered body would allow, his mind racing with thoughts about which of his enemies had the money as well as the connections to hire the Hand. Through blurred vision, he saw a young woman, early twenties, short brown hair, dressed like a waitress coming up the staircase. He screamed at her to go back, grabbed her by the arm and continued down the steps. She screamed and fought, but his powerful hands gripped her like a vice.

"What do you want from me?" she cried.

"To help you."

As he rushed down the stairs he noticed that he couldn't hear the ninjas in pursuit. Only, that meant nothing, since they were the Hand. There could've been a thousand of them behind him and they wouldn't have made a sound.

Finally, Moon Knight and the girl burst through the building's main doors and out onto the street, back into the monsoon. He told the girl to get into her car and drive away from here. She looked at him seriously confused, noticed that he was covered head to toe in blood, then did what she was told. Through his earpiece he could hear the death cry of the last of Kazakov's crew. Shortly thereafter, he found himself surrounded by five of the black pajama clad hostiles, all of them brandishing swords stained a bloody red. They must've leapt from the apartment sixty feet up and landed on the street below. Silent. Graceful as cats.

In awe of their athletic prowess, yet unwilling to concede defeat, he sank into a crouch, raised his sword. "Come and get me you Godless fucks."

_That is where you are wrong my Avatar. They are not Godless at all. In fact, their's may be the worst of us all_. He got a good laugh out of that. _And look how they serve him. They come by the droves, ready to kill and be killed until all of his enemies have been vanquished. My but they are good little soldiers. __Sort of makes a guy jealous. I mean…all I have is you. _

They crept closer. Moon Knight numbered them in his head. 1,2,3,4,5. Numbers one and two rushed towards him. He slapped swords as he whirled past number one and fired a brutal kick to the solar plexus of number two. As number two doubled over, his head was swiftly removed by violent cut from Moon Knight's blade. When number one came back, Moon Knight slashed away, cleaving him in half at the waist. As he turned, he barely managed to deflect a blow from number three. But, not fast enough to prevent number four from plunging his sword deep into his abdomen. Growling in pain, he brought down his sword, lopping off both of the ninja's arms. He kicked out, knocking the armless ninja over onto its back. His mind was blank with pain, as he pulled the sword from his stomach. Then, just as number five leapt high into the air and brought his sword swooping down, Moon Knight flung his battered body to the concrete.

The evasive maneuver exhausted the last of his energy, and Moon Knight's world gew hazy. Soaked in his own blood, he crawled out into the middle of the street. His body ached. His head ached. He was bleeding to death. Drowning to death. Desparate. And they were coming. Out into the street. To finish him off.

The two remaining ninjas loomed over him, swords at the ready as he lay on his side, in half a foot of rain. It hurt so bad. It would be so easy to just give up. Just roll over onto his back, close his eyes, and take that final sleep. It was so close. He almost welcomed it. Hell, he did welcome it. He could even see that bright light that everyone always talked about.

The ninjas continued their approach, silent, even in the sloppy rain.

Moon Knight thought about praying. But to whom? Khonshu was watching. But screw him. If he really gave a damn, he would do something. He looked back at the bright light. Maybe he had done something right. Wasn't the bright light supposed to be for people going to heaven? Dammit. He didn't know. Oh well, there was nothing he could do about it now. He spat out a mouthful of blood and waited for it to come.

Only the bright light wasn't heaven. It was the brown haired waitress. Or rather, her car. She sped in, turned hard, and came skidding to a stop, spraying him with water and sending the two ninjas sprawling. The door popped open. She reached out to him. "Get in."


	3. Chapter 3

Cairo International Airport was _impressive_, Gretchen von Hirsch thought to herself as she lifted her Gucci travel bag from the baggage carousel. Located 15 km to the northeast of the city's business district, Cairo International Airport was the busiest airport in all of Egypt, and the second busiest in all of Africa, handling more than 14 million passengers a year.

_Busy was good for business_, she thought as she meticulously studied her surroundings. Inside the newly renovated Terminal-1, the surfaces gleamed, the machinery hummed, and the shops all bustled with life.

Bag in one hand, she headed for the front of the terminal to await her curb-side limousine. Her eyes flitted from person to person, checking for anyone trying too hard not to make eye contact with her, or that person who made a little too much eye contact. Her right hand instinctively smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt. The pistol she'd carried in Japan had to be left in Japan, and she found herself unarmed upon arriving in Cairo.

"Miss von Hirsch," she heard a deep voice say. Her eyes went to the owner's face.

"Adofo," she said. She thought he looked uncomfortable in a well-tailored, hand-made suit. His muscles bulged, but the suit was exquisitely made, and she thought it looked good. "That is a beautiful suit," she told him.

"Thank you," he said. "Mr. Kelser, insists that I look the part." She noted his smile was strained.

_The part of what?_ She wondered.

She spotted the gun at his waist, _.45 automatic. _She couldn't actually discern the make and model, but before she left for Japan she had seen him carrying a .45 caliber Heckler & Koch, and she recognized the grip.

He reached for her bag.

She jerked it away from him. "I can take care of myself."

She watched his face glaze with shock as he stood there with his arm half-outstretched. He recovered in an instant. Then, dropping his hand to his side, he smiled. "Of course," he said, "I was told you like to do things for yourself."

"Is that so?" she asked. Amidst the hustle and bustle of the crowd, she could hear the clip-clop of her high-heeled shoes against the Terminal's hard floor.

"Why else would herr Kelser's chief of intelligence go off on a simple courier mission instead of delegating it to one of her subordinates?"

She chewed on the question. "Perhaps the more pertinent question is, why isn't one of my subordinates here to pick me up? Why did he send you?"

Adofo smiled as they walked. "Herr Kelser likes to do things a certain way. Surely, you can understand that."

_Does he not trust me? _She wondered. _He has no reason to not trust me_. _But, why then, has he sent this cretin to retrieve me instead of one of my own people? Perhaps he fears my spies and their loyalty to me? That would mean the ape was sent here to kill me. No,no,no, _she thought_. The old man would never betray me…would he? _In that instant, she wished she had a weapon.

A moment later, they made their way through the terminal and out through its glass doors, where they were greeted by a shiny, black SUV. She knew from previous experience that the vehicle was armored, and she watched with narrowed eyes as Adofo opened the door for her. He looked at her with fear in his eyes as he realized his mistake.

"Everybody is allowed one," she said. Then, she climbed into the backseat, placing her bag in the back storage compartment. While back there, she saw something that made her heart skip a beat. It was a Heckler & Koch 9 mm MP5 sub-machine gun. It was as black as death, compact, and mean-looking, resting in the center of an open duffle bag. She could make out the spare 30-round box magazines sticking up like stalks of black corn.

She felt a wave of relief. The weapon wouldn't have been so accessible to her if they had planned on killing her. Beads of sweat on her skin soaked through her blouse.

Through tinted windows she could see the construction site of the 350-room five-star Le Meridien hotel. _Such opulence_, she thought. _A pity they couldn't build a decent road system_.

"I know you told me everything would work out when last we spoke," Adofo said. "But I am a simple man, the son of a poor farmer. This world has made me dark and hard. I fear I do not share your optimism."

"Why is that?" She took her hands and smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt. "Is the dig not going well? I was under the impression that the archeologists in charge of the excavation was at the top of his field. He came highly recommended. I was told he was an expert with languages, held three doctorates, and was sympathetic to our cause."

"No, no, it's not that," she heard him say. She felt the vehicle pull forward and into the traffic exiting the airport. "Dr. Casey is doing a fine job. A remarkable one in fact. He and his team have made many interesting finds. Who knew there was anything in this country left to be discovered?"

"Then, what is the problem?"

"The closer Dr. Casey comes to unearthing whatever it is Herr Kelser wants him to unearth, the more unstable and paranoid Herr Kelser becomes."

"Explain yourself."

"The American superhero."

"That problem has been taken care of."

"I am aware, but now he is convinced that the Israelis have discovered his plans and have dispatched their assassins to kill him."

"The Jews?" She scoffed. "They know nothing of his existence."

"How many of your old leaders thought the same thing, just before they were taken by Mossad and either assassinated or forced to stand trial in front of a tribunal?"

_So, there is a brain behind that hulking exterior_, she thought. But, she shook her head. "No. The Egyptian intelligence services have already been paid off. He is protected here."

She stole a quick glance at the speedometer. The needle hovered at 120 km/h.

"What if he isn't?" Adofo asked.

"So, you no longer believe Herr Kelser is paranoid? You no longer believe he sees enemies where none exist?"

"I don't know," he said. She noted a hint of something strange in his voice

"Why do you say it like that?" she asked. She observed him checking his rearview mirror for the third time. "You've spotted our friends back there, I see."

"Yes," he said.

"You're good."

"I said I was the _son _of a farmer," he pointed out. "I didn't say that _I _was a farmer."

She noticed the whitening of his knuckles as he gripped the steering wheel harder. "What are you doing Adofo?"

"I am under strict orders not to be taken by the Israelis."

She removed a compact mirror from her pocket and used it to see what was behind her. She saw three vehicles. The rearmost one, more than 100 meters back, was a gray Mercedes sedan. That was the surveillance car, she knew.

"Adofo." She spoke calmly. "We are not being pursued by Jews. The men behind us are Egyptian counterintelligence. Those are men Herr Kelser has already paid off. They mean us no harm."

Adofo shook his head, and gripped the wheel tighter. "No, we mustn't be taken," he said.

"Adofo, listen to me. I have fifteen years of experience in intelligence. Trust me. This is completely normal. Even though we have an amicable relationship with SSI, they're still going to follow us around to make sure we don't have our fingers in any pies we didn't pay for. Once they see we're just heading to the site, they'll get bored and leave us alone."

"The Israelis can never know about the site," he said.

In that brief moment, she studied his eyes, watched his face grow dark with concentration. _Mein Gott_, she thought_. This madman is going to ruin everything. _She noticed the needle was up to 130 km/h now and climbing.

"Don't do it."

"Ma'am," he said. "You should probably put your seatbelt on."

Gretchen felt herself forced backward into her seat due to the horizontal g-force from the car accelerating so rapidly.

Adofo swerved, and she felt herself thrown against the door, her seatbelt easily keeping her from being thrown forward, not so much sideways.

She stole a glance at the speedometer. The needle had found its way up to 170km/h and it was still rising.

She looked through the front windshield and saw that they were zipping past cars left and right, however not as dramatically as she would've assumed. Apparently, everyone in Cairo drove fast.

She felt her body thrown quickly to the left, then back to the right, as Adofo, deftly maneuvered the SUV through traffic.

She looked over her shoulder. The chase car effortlessly kept pace, like a glistening gray shadow. There was no shaking them.

The next thing she knew, Adofo had whipped the car across three lanes and onto an exit ramp. She felt a modicum of respect for the maneuver, as she was sure there was no way their pursuers could follow.

"Success," she heard the Egyptian shout, as they turned onto one of Egypt's many unmarked roads. There was traffic on this road too, and it also flowed at a breakneck pace. The two of them locked eyes through the rearview mirror. She noticed his dark eyes were somehow light with his perceived victory.

_You are a fool_, she thought, and turned to the rear to observe traffic, unable to totally accept the victory.

"Have faith," he said.

Then she heard the sound of screeching tires, the crunch of metal on metal, and a thousand car horns sounding at once. She was surprised and impressed to see the gray Mercedes spill down the exit ramp and then snake onto their same road with reckless speed.

She turned back to face the front, her arms folded across her chest. "What now?"

Adofo made an immediate left turn down an alley. They were surrounded by low-rise buildings on both sides, laundry hung suspended in the air on clotheslines, children played futbol nearby.

Then, Adofo made a quick right turn and then burst out into the middle of a busy street. A car clipped the back panel of the truck, spinning it around 180 degrees. Metal crunched, glass flew, and the right side of Gretchen's body was brutally slammed into the armored door.

She bared the pain, as she felt the car jerk forward again. Adofo did not waste time asking her if she was okay. He instead, applied all of his attention to the throttle.

They zipped past black-and-white taxis, pick-up trucks, and even a luxury limousine or two, but when Gretchen looked behind them, no more than a hundred meters back and closing, was the gray Mercedes. _Impossible_. _Unless_…

She looked forward and found that they were behind a truck loaded with live goats. The driver had apparently not gotten the memo about driving fast.

There were no lanes on the road, so Adofo began to pull up alongside the truck. Then, he did something she didn't expect. He bumped the truck with the front of the SUV, between the rear wheel and the back end, and watched as it spun out of control like a child's toy. She looked into the rearview mirror and saw the look on his face. Where once he had been bright and jovial, he was now dark and stern.

Gretchen looked behind them, just in time to see the Mercedes come to a screeching halt in front of the goat truck. "Where did you learn to drive like that?" she said. She gingerly touched the new bump on her head.

"I am a man of many talents," he said.

He began to slow down.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"There is no need to drive this fast anymore," he said. "It is dangerous."

"You foolish, foolish man."

A look of confusion played across his face.

"That was only one car."

"Your point being?"

"There are more cars out there. And they're watching us."

He checked his mirrors.

"I don't see anything. What makes you think that?"

"I don't think, Adofo, I know. Whether it's Jews, Egyptians, Germans, Swedes, or the Japanese they all perform surveillance in teams. That's how the Mercedes kept finding us, even after extensive maneuvering on your part."

"That makes sense," he said. "But how do we spot the second vehicle?"

That's when an explosion of gunfire sent sparks cascading across the bulletproof back window.

They both instinctively ducked.

"That answer your question?"

"Yes," he said.

The two cars slammed through the streets of northern Cairo, pedestrians dove out of the way, goats, and chickens were run over, carts of produce obliterated. Bullets pelted the SUV in a storm of fire and metal. Gretchen worked her way into the back hatch and retrieved the MP5.

"What are you doing?" Adofo asked.

She ejected the magazine and made sure it held a full 30 rounds. Then, she slammed it back home, and worked the bolt, chambering a round. She thumbed the selector switch from the picture of one bullet(semi-automatic setting) all the way past the picture of three bullets(three-round burst setting) to the picture of five bullets(full automatic setting).

She was in the process of screwing on the sound suppressor when the SUV was struck in that ever so vulnerable spot. This new chase car had done to them, what they'd previously done to the goat truck. Since, she'd had to unbuckle herself to retrieve the sub-machine gun, she was thrown about the cabin of the SUV, cracking her head, yet again on the bullet proof glass.

And, then she was banging her head on the ceiling.

And then she was flung into the other window.

And as her body rebounded yet again, she realized what was happening. When the SUV spun out of control, Adofo must have overcorrected, causing the vehicle to flip while she wasn't wearing her safety belt.

_Don't pass out, don't pass out_, she told herself. She was unconcerned with death, for if she died, she wouldn't have to worry about the men coming to kill her.

And then the flipping SUV came to a stop.

She found herself lying half-conscious on the ceiling of the truck, head exploding with bolts of pain, vision half-obscured by dark liquid, body covered in contusions.

She coughed and her mouth filled with liquid. She spat it out and barely noticed it was blood. _Good girl_, she thought. _Still alive_.

_Now, where is the weapon?_

She searched frantically. Or, at least she tried to search frantically. Her body moved much slower than she would've liked at the moment.

"Adofo?" she called.

He didn't respond, but she saw just the tiniest hint of movement.

Then, her hands touched something hard and familiar, just as movement caught her eye in the other direction. She turned her head and through the back window she saw four men headed towards them. They all carried automatic weapons. Two of them wore white, while the other two wore gray shirts.

It took watching the two sets of men move with impossible synchronization for her to realize she was seeing double.

_Not good. _

But, she made the decision to act, in spite of her newfound handicap. She grabbed two spare magazines and stuffed them into the pockets of her cream-colored pants. Then, she popped open the door and was immediately met by a burst of machine-gunfire.

She hopped out in a crouch and raised the sub-machine gun high over her head. Depressing the trigger, she unleashed the full 30-round magazine in one long snaking burst.

She never got the sound suppressor in place, and in a cacophony of staccato explosions, the bullets shattered glass, pitted the chassis of the chase car, and tore through flesh.

She'd decided to shoot all four men just in case, and the gunfire started a stampede. Men, women, and children screamed and ran, livestock scattered, cars sped by, eager to escape.

Spent brass piled up at her feet and she popped the empty magazine out to clatter on the ground. She slapped in a new clip and worked the bolt. Then, she shouldered the weapon, keeping her elbow in tight, and stepped away from the armored door, moving forward at a measured pace.

She approached the bodies, studying them for movement. There were still four of them, and she chided herself for her weakness. She couldn't shake the double vision.

She heard two of the men groan. She fired a burst into one of them. The bullets sparked, cratered and ricocheted off the street. She quickly panned right and loosed a half-dozen rounds into the body of the other one. His body jerked and flopped like a marionette under the impact of six bullets, and the gun in his hand click-clacked as it hit the ground.

She moved forward and kicked the gun away. Then she kicked the gun away from the other corpse on the first try, constantly aware of the silent clock ticking in her head. The first car would be catching up to them at any moment, they had to keep moving.

She emptied the wallets of both men, taking the cash and credit cards. Better for the authorities to believe this was a robbery. She found identification badges on both men. It was just as she had feared. They were Egyptian counterintelligence agents.

She started to curse, then she heard the sound of expensive shoes on pavement. She turned abruptly, the gun at her hip-business end ready for whatever.

"What happened?" Adofo asked. He walked toward her, holding his head. Blood trickled down the side of his face.

She stood, and stepped toward him. "What happened?"

When they were face to face she delivered a kick to his shin. The kick came with such force that he doubled over clutching his leg, his face twisted in agony. "You happened," she said. "I should kill you for this."

She walked to the dead agent's car; the driver's door was wide open. She turned back to Adofo, and watched him hop about on one leg. Then, something caught her attention. She narrowed her eyes and tried to focus in on what she was seeing. A child lay sprawled in the street, red ribbons of blood seeped from his body.

She stood there, frozen, until the ticking of her internal clock grew too loud for her to tolerate and her mind screamed, _we have to go. _

She tore her eyes away from the child and climbed into the car. By this time Adofo was standing on the other side, and his gaze had found the child as well.

"It's time to go," she told her former chauffeur. She kept her eyes straight forward on the road. There was no time for pity. There was no time for remorse. The child was weak, and he died.

She felt the car rock downward as Adofo climbed into the passenger seat. Then she threw the car into gear, and they sped off.


End file.
